


Get What We Want

by SailorChibi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF!John, Bamf!Greg, M/M, Mycroft and Sherlock are teases, Rimming, Sherlock-and-John and Greg-and-Mycroft having sex in the same bed, The closest I've ever come to writing a foursome, UST that gets solved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-15
Updated: 2012-09-15
Packaged: 2017-11-14 07:49:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/512966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SailorChibi/pseuds/SailorChibi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock, John, Greg and Mycroft are on a case together. Just when John thinks things can’t get any worse, the motel loses their reservation and only has two rooms available. He and Greg think they might finally have a chance to seduce the Holmes brothers until Sherlock decides he and Mycroft are going to share a room instead. John and Greg aren’t having it. They’re going to get what they want, regardless of whether (or maybe because) they all end up in the same bed.</p>
<p>Not a foursome per se, but features John and Sherlock having sex in the same bed as Mycroft and Greg... who are also having sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Get What We Want

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock belongs to Moffat, Gatiss, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
> 
> This was for a [prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/20063.html?thread=120928607&) on the kink meme.

It’s late by the time they finally get to the motel and everyone is tired. Sherlock isn’t speaking to anyone, seems to think that communicating by glaring is more effective, and even Mycroft has fallen into a restrained silence that dares anyone to interrupt it. Greg is manfully drawing on the last of his patience to avoid throttling either one of them and John is just looking forward to having the opportunity to _sleep_. Turns out it’s much easier to deal with Sherlock and Mycroft when you’re not exhausted. 

To say that none of them are impressed to hear that the motel lost their reservation is an understatement.

“John,” Greg says, physically pushing Sherlock and Mycroft away before either man can open his mouth. If anyone could kill by look alone, it would be a Holmes and the poor concierge is practically cringing already. He herds them over to the other side of the room and folds his arms, staring them down. Mycroft ignores him and Sherlock seems to delight in having found someone new to glare at.

“I’m very sorry,” the woman behind the desk says nervously. 

“It’s alright,” John says, forcing a strained smile. “We’ll take anything you’ve got.”

“Well, that’s the thing, sir. The convention is in town and we don’t really have a whole lot of rooms open. We’ve only got two rooms. Granted, they’ve got king-sized beds...” The woman trails off.

“Fine, that’s fine.” He puts Mycroft’s credit card down on the counter and rubs a weary hand over his face. Two rooms. Jesus, he can just imagine what it’s going to be like sharing with Sherlock. John’s been trying to keep a little distance between the two of them ever since he discovered that he might, just possibly, be in love with his crazed flatmate. Of course, should it turn out that Sherlock actually feels the same way having a room of their own would be extremely beneficial, but that’s just the exhaustion talking. He knows it’s not going to happen; he just needs to make his libido come to terms with it.

“Anything?” Greg says, stepping up behind him.

“Two rooms.” John turns to face him and witnesses an identical play of emotion across Greg’s face. Surprise, elation, and then an “oh shit” look. 

“Two rooms,” he repeats weakly. “Fuck.”

“That about sums it up.” John snags the four key cards the woman hands him and steps closer, lowering his voice. “It’s like they’re _trying_ to be the death of us, you know?”

Greg laughs a little and shakes his head. “I hear you, mate. Death from sexual frustration. Sadly I think if I tried to get a leg over Mycroft tonight he’d probably beat me to death with his umbrella. He’s had that look in his eyes all night. It’s the same one that Sherlock gets if I leave him alone with Anderson and Sally for too long.”

John smirks and walks over to where Sherlock and Mycroft are waiting. “We have a place to sleep,” he says, holding up the key cards. “But we’ll have to double up. She could only give us two rooms with one bed in each.”

“Just more proof that this whole endeavour has been a complete waste of time,” Sherlock says, snatching two of the key cards out of John’s hands. “And now I’ll be stuck with _you_ all night. I swear, Mycroft, if you kick me in your sleep again I’m going to throw your umbrella out the window.”

“As long as you don’t keep me up all night deducing in your sleep,” Mycroft replies with an air of false sweetness. He takes one of the cards from his brother and glances at it. God knows what he’s deducing from it.

“Wait,” John says, because somehow he didn’t see this coming. “You two are...?”

Sherlock casts him an impatient, ‘why are you being such an idiot honestly John’ look. It’s a very expressive look. “We are brothers, however much I may dislike admitting it. When we were younger and visited my grandparents for the summer Mummy always insisted that we sleep in the same bed. She said it was more wholesome.” He speaks the word like it’s going to jump up and bite him. “I’m sure you will pass the night much more comfortably with Lestrade than I will. Lestrade, you are most welcome and I will collect upon your gratitude later.”

Mycroft just rolls his eyes and walks away. Sherlock huffs and stalks after him. John stares after the two of them, knowing that he probably looks ridiculous but somehow unable to care. In the midst of flip flopping back and forth on whether he wanted to risk sharing a room, a _bed_ , with Sherlock, he’d never imagined that Sherlock might actually prefer to room with _Mycroft_ as opposed to him. It hurts a little, truth be told, somewhere deep underneath the protective layer of shock. He pivots slowly and looks at Greg, who has his mouth open.

“Did that just happen?” John asks dazedly.

“I... I think so,” Greg says, blinking. “Hang on – what did he mean, collect upon my gratitude?”

“I’m not sure you want to know.”

“No, probably not.” Greg sighs and scratches the back of his neck, glancing around at their luggage. “What do you say we take this up to the room and then go down to the pub and have a couple?”

“Cheers,” John mutters. In light of what’s just happened he can think of nothing he needs more.

They end up in the pub where a giggly waitress that is much too young for either man keeps hovering around them, sending them both flirtatious smiles every chance she gets. Greg - too polite to outright ignore her - gives her the occasional smile that comes across as more of a grimace. John just wonders how his life came to this: a pretty young girl is trying to flirt with him and he’s not one bit interested because his obnoxious flatmate has just cockblocked him without even knowing that he was doing it. 

“Another pint?” Greg asks.

“Ta.” He falls silent as the waitress comes back with two more glasses and then sighs heavily as she slowly moves away. “I wonder,” he says, “I really do. I used to be so adamant that there was nothing between me and Sherlock. But now, Christ, one look from the bastard when he’s in the middle of a case is enough to…” He shakes his head, knowing that Greg needs no more detail to understand. “And you know, sometimes I swear he does it on purpose. He just, he’s got this way of… of _looking_ at me like he knows exactly what’s going through my mind.”

Greg raises his glass. “I got you there, mate. Mycroft confuses the hell out of me on a regular basis. Sometimes it seems like he’s interested but then before we get anywhere he backs off. I’m bloody sick of playing this game. I don’t know how you live with Sherlock. I’d have jumped Mycroft long ago if I had to be around him all the time.”

John smiles wearily. It has played on his sanity, that’s for certain. He was mostly straight before he moved in with Sherlock and was treated to burning stares, a deep throaty voice, and miles of long pale skin, all combined with a grating personality and a brilliant mind. Infuriatingly enough, it’s not all men, it’s _just Sherlock_. He takes another long swallow and stares into the depths of his glass. “I’d just like to show him,” he says quietly. “Just once. That it could be worthwhile, you know? I’m pretty sure he’s not a virgin, not at sex anyway, but relationships are something different and I’m not sure he realizes that. We’d be good together.”

“You’re certainly the only one who knows how to handle him,” Greg agrees. “He’s been a bit more human since you came into the picture.”

“I could say the same for you and Mycroft,” John points out. Mycroft can be a bastard sometimes, but Greg seems to have the ability to drag Mycroft back down to Earth and make him understand that he’s not above all that. The first time John had ever seen Mycroft really, truly laugh was when Greg was with him. It was a good sight. Nice. Sherlock had nearly tripped over his own two feet in shock. And Mycroft is enough to keep Greg from getting lost in the job. The two of them are good for each other.

“Not like we’ll ever get the chance to prove it,” Greg says glumly.

They fall into another silence broken only by the waitress bringing over a third round. John sips at the bitter beer and stares vacantly at the far wall, trying not to imagine what he and Sherlock could be doing at this very moment. Would he have had the courage to try and seduce Sherlock if they’d stayed together in the same room? He finds himself picturing Sherlock being pushed back on the bed, the soft, sweet cries and moans John could wring out of him, the pink flush that would rise in those porcelain cheeks as Sherlock is slowly, methodically stripped, stretched and fucked. His cock hardens in his jeans and John takes a hasty gulp of his drink, feeling dizzy with want.

“Fuck,” he mutters raggedly, because now that he’s pictured it he can’t stop. Without thinking he presses a hand between his legs, an attempt to adjust himself discreetly that likely fails miserably. For a dizzying second he imagines that it’s Sherlock’s hand on him and his breath catches.

“Jesus,” Greg says huskily, and when John looks up he realizes that Greg is staring at him. His eyes are dilated and his face is flushed. “You really want him, don’t you?”

“No less than you want Mycroft.”

“Then what are we sitting down here for? Let’s go.”

Something that feels suspiciously like hope squeezes John’s chest. “Greg…”

“The worst they can do is say no,” Greg says and that gives John pause because it’s true. Some small part of his mind tries in vain to point out how extremely awkward things will be between he and Sherlock when Sherlock, inevitably, turns him down flat, but a larger part of his mind can’t stop thinking about how good it could be if Sherlock says yes.

He drains the rest of his beer and sets the glass down lightly. “Let’s go.”

Greg is right behind him as John makes his way towards the door. They cross to the lift and get inside with a handful of other people. John faces the wall and hopes that no one notices that he’s still half-hard. He can’t believe they’re actually doing this. His heart is pounding and he’s filled with jittery excitement. The lift stops and they get off. The room that Sherlock and Mycroft are sharing is right next door to theirs. When he stops in front of it he doesn’t hear anything coming from the inside, but John knows that Sherlock, at least, is not sleeping. Sherlock rarely sleeps at home and never when they’re outside of the flat, not if he can help it. He knocks.

Sure enough, Sherlock opens the door. He’s wearing a pair of pyjamas and his blue dressing grown. His curls are messier than normal, tumbling over his eyes in waves. Just behind him John can see Mycroft, also dressed in pyjamas, though admittedly his are in far better condition than Sherlock’s. Mycroft is sitting on the bed and he leans forward, presumably to see if Greg is there as well. John helps him out with this by reaching up, grabbing Sherlock’s collar, and yanking the shocked man down into a heated kiss, thereby leaving enough space for Greg to squeeze by, stalk over to Mycroft, and climb onto his lap.

John keeps the kiss gentle at first, not wanting to overwhelm Sherlock right away. Slowly, he urges Sherlock to open his mouth and feels a thrill when Sherlock obliges. It’s heaven to finally slide his tongue into that mouth, to know what every nook and crevice tastes like in detail. It’s even better when Sherlock makes a high-pitched sound deep in his throat and sinks into the kiss, folding against John like someone’s taken all of the air out of him. John braces himself against the doorframe and hums his appreciation, breaking off the kiss to press his lips against that gloriously long, slender neck that is just begging for a beautiful set of marks to be sucked onto it. 

“John,” Sherlock gasps. His voice is all deep and raspy and John has to force himself to focus. “John, what are you - ”

“No. No talking unless you want me to stop,” John says. He knows from experience that it is far better to cut Sherlock off at the pass before he really gets going. If John lets him keep speaking he’ll start deducing, and once that great bloody brain starts working John knows his confidence will go out the window. Instead, he presses a hand on Sherlock’s chest, backing him up into the room and closing the door. Greg is still happily kissing Mycroft and judging by the way Mycroft’s hands are eagerly cupping his arse it seems that Greg’s fears of being beaten with an umbrella are unfounded.

He guides Sherlock back until his knees hit the bed and he stumbles, sitting down hard. John looms over him and cups his cheek, running the pad of his thumb across that cheekbone. God he’s had dreams about those cheekbones. “I want to fuck you,” he whispers.

Sherlock’s eyes go wide and his mouth opens but nothing comes out for a moment. John rather enjoys the fact that he’s managed to stun Sherlock Holmes speechless. Predictably, it doesn’t last long. “ _Here_?” Sherlock squeaks at last, his voice reaching a decibel John wouldn’t have believed him capable of.

“Why not?” John says, a smirk tugging at his lips as he slides his hand around, tugging at those curls. Sherlock inhales sharply at the sensation. “You and Mycroft shared a bed when you were younger. This can be one more thing you’ll share.” He leans down and attaches his mouth to Sherlock’s neck again, cutting off any complaints before they can be voiced. A soft moan is his reward as Sherlock’s hands come up and grab onto his hips. John knows - doesn't doubt for a single second - that Sherlock would stop this if he really had any objections. Sherlock isn't the kind of person to let something happen if he's not okay with it. That's why he doesn't hesitate to press his advantage, gripping the edge of Sherlock's dressing gown and pushing it down off of his shoulders. Sherlock reluctantly releases him and shakes the offending garment off. 

"Take your shirt off," John breathes in his ear.

To his credit, Sherlock only hesitates for a moment before he grabs the bottom of his shirt and lifts it, almost defiantly, over his head. Out of the corner of his eye John notices that Greg and Mycroft have paused in their snogging to watch as the first skin of the night is bared. He feels a perverse pleasure in knowing that he's soon going to own this man who is absolutely beautiful in his own way. He recalls all of those nights he spent in his bed, wanking to the thought of lovely pale skin and unnaturally bright eyes, and swallows hard. Now that he has the right to touch and caress and kiss, he doesn't know where to start. It's almost overwhelming. 

"I believe we're being left behind," Mycroft says, breaking John's daze. He eases Greg back and strips off his shirt as well. His skin is as pale as Sherlock's, but not naturally so, more in the 'this skin never sees the light of day' kind of way. There's a little soft bulk around his midsection but his chest is nicely muscled and John can tell in an instant that all of Sherlock's comments about the diet were just teasing, because Mycroft is far from overweight. Greg makes an odd groaning growl in the back of his throat.

"Fuck," he says. "Fucking hell, Mycroft." And he leans forward, sliding his hands into Mycroft's auburn hair and yanking him into a kiss. At the same time he keeps pushing until Mycroft has no choice but to topple over, landing flat on his back on the bed. Quick as a wink Greg attacks his chest, scraping his teeth gently over a nipple. Mycroft arches against him and moans and Sherlock's breathing noticeably picks up. John looks at him and arches an eyebrow, somewhat amused.

"Like that, do you?" he asks. "Go on then. Bottoms off."

Again, Sherlock pauses for a split second before he moves, this time sliding his thumbs into his waistband and lifting his hips. He yanks his bottoms down and takes his boxers with them, leaving him gloriously naked. John's throat closes up and his brain goes offline, leaving him both speechless and temporarily unable to recall how to draw air into his lungs. Sherlock shoots him a challenging look and then smirks as he shifts backwards to lie down next to his brother. Greg pauses and looks between the two of them and he doesn't seem to know what to say. Mycroft, on the other hand, does.

"Perhaps we should continue this elsewhere," he suggests delicately, making a valiant attempt to not look at his brother's erection.

"No," Greg says immediately.

"Gregory - "

"I said no! Do you know what you've been doing to me, Mycroft? Every time I turn around you're there giving me those coy, flirty little smiles, but when I try to respond in any way you... I don't know what, get shy or some bloody thing like that. I'm all for waiting until you’re ready but you've driven me past my limit and I know exactly what's going to happen if we step outside this room. You'll remember something vitally important that you absolutely have to do and you'll run off again and this time _I'm not having it_." Greg's eyes are blazing by the time he finishes and Mycroft seems suitably cowed, as he doesn't try to argue when Greg shifts off of the bed and stands next to John. "Turn over on your front."

This time Mycroft is the one who hesitates, his eyes searching Greg's face intently before he obeys, twisting around until he is on his hands and knees. From this position he can easily look down into Sherlock's face. Watching the two of them watch each other, Sherlock completely naked with his cock and balls on display and Mycroft’s thinly clothed arse thrust into the air, is easily the hottest thing that John has ever seen, and just when he thinks his cock can't get any harder it does. He bites back a raw groan and has to adjust himself in his trousers because it's actually starting to hurt. If he doesn't fuck Sherlock soon he might actually explode.

"We need something," he says to Greg, forcing himself to move away from the bed on legs that are suddenly feeling a good deal less steady than they did five minutes ago. He wasn't expecting this to happen and so he doesn't have anything, doesn't have lube or condoms. Well, John knows he's clean, he got a round of tests after he was sent home and he hasn't had sex since then. And his supicion that Sherlock is a virgin has been confirmed just from the way that Sherlock seems to be a little off balance by everything they do, like this whole thing is new to him and he's not sure how to categorize anything. Mycroft might care, but somehow he thinks that it's not going to matter much in the long run. Right then, lube it is.

They have nothing like what he's got at home but he does find some complimentary lotion on the sink that seems like it will do the trick. He stumbles back to the door of the bathroom and stares. Greg, apparently, has decided that waiting is for the dogs. Mycroft's bottoms, underwear included, have been yanked down around his knees and Greg's kneeling between his parted legs, one knee on the floor and the other braced against the bed. One arm is hooked around Mycroft's thighs, keeping him from moving, and the other is pressing Mycroft's arse cheeks open. John isn't at the best angle to view, but he knows what Greg is doing. It's blatantly obvious from the way his head is bobbing and Mycroft's mewling little cries that he can't seem to keep quiet in spite of what appear to be his best efforts. Sherlock is propped up on his elbows, watching this with enormous eyes.

"Jesus Christ," John mutters, unable to tear his eyes away. When he moves a couple of steps closer he gets a much better view. He can actually see Greg's tongue licking around the rim, teasing the sensitive skin with a little wriggle here and then, one that Mycroft always reacts favourably to. Slowly Greg works his way towards the center and pushes gently, sliding his tongue deeply into Mycroft's body. Mycroft arches his back and squirms, a choked sob coming from his throat. The British Government is coming undone right in front of John and it's... it's fucking hot, actually.

He moves around to Sherlock and redirects his attention by cupping his cheek again. He knows Sherlock well enough to know when the man is getting a little overwhelmed by data and he thinks Sherlock is approaching that point. Time to distract him, then. John kisses him again, encouraging Sherlock to come out and play as he pops the top of the lotion tube off and squirts some into his fingers. He rubs his hands together, hoping to warm it. Sherlock pulls back and looks down at his hands for a long moment before his eyes flick back up to meet John's.

"You want to fuck me," he says.

It's not a question but John nods so fast he feels dizzy. "Yes, Christ, yes. I want to be inside of you. Will you let me?" He doesn't know what he'll do if Sherlock says no. Combust, possibly.

Fortunately Sherlock seems to have no intention of allowing John to become the first person to succumb to spontaneous combustion of a sexual nature. In answer to John's question he lays back again and spreads his arms, looking up at John with the most perfect set of heavily lidded bedroom eyes John has ever seen. And then, just in case John didn't catch the hint, he snags John's wrist and pulls his hand down and between his thighs. John inhales sharply as he comes into contact with warm skin and kneels down beside Greg. The slurping and moaning coming from him and Mycroft are only serving to excite him further and provide a nice backdrop towards his time with Sherlock. 

Sherlock helpfully spreads his legs and pulls his knees up towards his chest. John's mouth is dry as he slides his finger down further and gently caresses that little hole. It flutters against his tentative touch and Sherlock sighs softly. When John glances at him, he's watching John steadily, without a hint of - well, anything in his face. It makes John want to see him come completely undone, to see him be writhing and whimpering underneath John. He resolves to make it happen and licks the head of Sherlock's cock as he smoothly slides a finger inside. The startled sound Sherlock makes - halfway between a gasp and a swallowed cry of pleasure - only makes him more determined.

It's been a while since John has given anyone a blow job, since before he went to Afghanistan, but it turns out to be one of those things that you never forget. He parts his lips and takes Sherlock in slowly, learning the taste and feel of the hot, tight skin in his mouth. Sherlock’s cock is heavy on his tongue and he swallows around it deliberately, enjoying the way Sherlock’s hips jerk upwards at the brief pressure. A soft, breathy sound escapes Sherlock and he clenches his hands tightly in the sheets. John smiles as best he can and begins to suck hard, his cheeks hollowing from the pressure. He continues gently thrusting one finger in and out of Sherlock, keeping the pace slow but steady, and eventually Sherlock's hips begin moving with him, following the pleasurably rhythm that John has set up for him. 

"Lube," Greg says next to him, voice rough. There's saliva on his chin and his cheeks are flushed but he looks happier than he has in weeks. John pulls off of and out of Sherlock, enjoying Sherlock's little whine of disappointment, and grabs the bottle off of the bed. He squeezes some of the lotion onto Greg's hands and watches as Greg slicks up his cock, realizing that at some point Greg took off the rest of his clothes. He can't help giving Greg an appreciative look. The D.I. has been hiding a nice body underneath his clothing.

John stands, deciding that it's time his clothes disappear, too. He pulls his jumper off and follows it with his vest, aware of the three appreciative sets of eyes lingering on him. Even Mycroft has turned his head to watch. At one point this might have made John feel self-conscious but he's too drunk on lust to care. He bares the scar on his shoulder without hesitation and immediately puts his hands to his belt, unhooking it and thumbing his trousers open. He pushes his trousers and boxers down, allowing his cock to spring up and slap wetly against his belly. Sherlock's eyes fix on it and he, possibly unconsciously, pulls his thighs open a little bit wider. John’s gaze is drawn down between the parted cheeks and he swallows a rough groan.

“I’m going to fuck you now,” he announces to the world at large, swiping the remains of the lotion over his cock. Just that touch is almost enough to undo him and he has to steady himself. 

“Alright,” Sherlock says breathlessly. 

“And I’m going to fuck you,” Greg says, giving Mycroft a gentle slap on the arse. “Wouldn’t want you to feel left out.”

Mycroft’s head swings back around to face the headboard and he shifts on the bed. “Then you’d best get on with it.”

There’s no way John and Greg can ignore that. John steps forward and grabs Sherlock’s legs, adjusting them so that his knees are pushed up by his shoulders. He guides his cock to Sherlock’s entrance and pauses, entranced by the way it looks next to Sherlock’s skin. He can’t resist sliding the head up and down, the way made easy by the extra lotion, and the sensation makes both him and Sherlock moan together. Beside him, Greg pulls Mycroft’s bottoms down as far as they’ll go and pushes Mycroft’s arse cheeks apart, pressing his cock gently against the fluttering hole. He puts a bit of pressure on and both he and John watch as the little hole gives way, swallowing the tip of Greg’s prick. Greg groans and pulls back and then pushes forward again, sliding just the head inside each time before allowing it to pop free.

“Fuck,” he gasps. “So fucking greedy. I can feel how much your arse wants me, Mycroft. How much it wants to take my cock and suck it dry.”

Mycroft moans and pushes back. “Please, Gregory,” he begs, sounding like it’s hard for him to focus long enough to say the desperate words. “Please, fuck me.”

“John,” Sherlock says, and John looks back at his lover. Sherlock’s eyes are wide and dilated, his cheeks flushed pink from desire. Just from a single glance John can tell that Sherlock is ready to be fucked. He exhales shakily and carefully pushes forward into Sherlock’s body. His eyes roll up and he groans loudly. It’s nothing at all like being with a woman; Sherlock is hot and sinfully tight, his walls grabbing at John’s cock, practically yanking him inside, and the long legs twining around his waist aren’t helping. He sinks all the way in until his balls are resting against the curve of Sherlock’s arse and feels ankles lock round his waist. He pauses there, breathing heavily, needing a second to let his head clear. The urge to grab Sherlock’s hips and pound ruthlessly into him is nearly overwhelming and he doesn’t want this to end that quickly.

“Jesus Sherlock,” he mutters at last, planting his hands on the bed and bending forward a little. The head of Sherlock’s cock drags against John’s belly and Sherlock moans at the sensation. It makes John’s head spin. His fantasies are coming true underneath him “You’re so _tight_.”

“Virgin,” Mycroft says, turning his head to look.

“If you can talk I’m not trying hard enough,” Greg says, thrusting deep inside with one rough shove of his hips. Mycroft makes a strangled sound, his eyes fluttering shut and fingers digging into the sheets. 

John takes a deep breath and straightens up. It's absolute bliss, being buried so deeply inside of Sherlock, but if he doesn't come soon his brain is going to melt out his ears. He pulls out and then pushes in, setting a slower rhythm than Greg, but it's no less true. The soft cries, gradually increasing in decibel, that are coming from Mycroft and Sherlock are music to John's ears. He wants to record them so that he can listen to them the next time he has a wank, but that would mean stepping away from the bed and not even Moriarty walking into the room could do that, not when Sherlock is moaning and whimpering beneath him with each firm thrust of John's hips. 

Suddenly Mycroft arches his back and groans loudly. Greg smiles wickedly and angles his hips on purpose, making Mycroft writhe and push back needily. "Touch yourself," Greg orders. "Take your cock in hand and make yourself come."

It's the first time John has ever seen Mycroft follow orders. He braces himself with one hand, his whole body shuddering, and reaches down to wrap shaking fingers around his cock. He begins pulling, arms trembling with exertion. Greg groans and begins moving faster, long, deep strokes that have both men approaching the brink rapidly. John can hardly breathe, watching the two of them, it's like live porn but so much better, so much more intense. He can see every bead of sweat on their bodies, hear the wet slapping of Greg's balls as they impact Mycroft's arse, taste the heady allure of pure sex that's filled the room. He can see Sherlock's belly muscles contracting and feel the heat of his arousal growing, making his fingers tingle. They're all close.

Greg comes first with a rough shout, bending nearly double over Mycroft’s body. He sinks his teeth into Mycroft’s shoulder and Mycroft shudders, spilling silently over his hand, his head falling low enough that his forehead touches the bed. John closes his eyes, overwhelmed, and begins rotating his hips in small, tight circles, knowing that he’s nearly there and it won’t take much more, he’s so wound up. He gasps for breath as Sherlock’s muscles tighten around him and looks up, blindly seeking Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock is staring at him.

“I want to see,” he says. “Come _on_ , John.”

“Fucking hell,” John says, too breathless to cry out as his orgasm shakes through him. He presses firmly into Sherlock and comes inside of him. Sherlock tilts his head back and John stares down at him, realizing that Sherlock is actually _categorizing how it feels to have John come inside of him_. He wishes that he could come again right away, give Sherlock but more data, but then he realizes that Sherlock hasn’t yet and that’s even better.

Gently he breaks the hold Sherlock’s legs have on him and pulls out, sinking to his knees. His come is already sliding out of Sherlock and John can’t… he just can’t. He slides a finger inside and Sherlock gasps so John adds another one. Sherlock is wet and sweet inside, the muscles still loose and trembling. He finds Sherlock’s prostate with unerring accuracy and this time Sherlock shouts, his back arching off of the bed. John licks the head of his cock and then swallows it to the root as he does it again and just like that Sherlock is coming, hands scrabbling for hold, and Mycroft actually reaches over and grabs his brother’s hand and gives him something to cling to.

John eases his fingers out slowly and releases Sherlock regretfully. He crawls up onto the bed beside his detective and lies down, too tired to even think about a shower. Sherlock is shivering and he curls up against John immediately, his hand still holding onto Mycroft’s, who seems to be enjoying this surprisingly cuddlier side of Sherlock as much as John does. Greg is on the far side of Mycroft, spooned up against his back, one arm slung possessively across Mycroft’s waist. It’s the weirdest bed John has ever been a part of but he can honestly say that there’s not one part of him that regrets any of this.

"I doubt any of us do," Sherlock mumbles, his voice muffled by the way his head is turned into John's neck.

John just smiles. "I'll never get over how brilliant you are when you do that." Sometimes he swears Sherlock can actually read minds and then just works backwards, figuring out how to explain it to the people around him so that no one catches on to his ability.

"Go to sleep," Greg says from the far side of the bed. "Some of us have to get up early tomorrow."

"I'll have Anthea handle it," says Mycroft sleepily. "Problem solved."

"Does that mean we can stay in bed all day?" John asks hopefully. He's never been the kind of person who's wanted to waste all day in bed, but staying in bed with Sherlock sounds like a gift straight from God. He can think of nothing he would like more, and if Greg and Mycroft are around for part of it he's not opposed to the idea. There are some things he wants to do with Sherlock in private but he's not one to pass up what amounts to a free porn show.

"Yes, John. Now go to sleep," Sherlock commands, and the fact that _Sherlock_ of all people is ordering _John_ to go to sleep is so surprising that John actually obeys. He has extremely pleasant dreams all night and the fact that he wakes up to Sherlock, apparently a fast learner, swallowing his cock while Mycroft and Greg have a lazy good morning fuck beside him only serves to make reality even better.


End file.
